Nothing to Hide

by Allison Brennan

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t waver in his explanation to the doctor. I asked him if he was really hit by a ball, and he said yes, accused me of not trusting him. But I saw the bruises. What if the doc thinks that I’m the one beating on him?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lucy said.

  “Not really. I had CPS down my throat once when I got in a fight. I was fifteen, and Duke dragged me to the emergency room after I got in a brawl with three guys who were bigger, but stupider, than me. If it wasn’t for Duke’s friends in law enforcement, I might have been thrown in foster care and Duke into jail.”

  “Different situation.”

  “Not really—the nurse called them because Duke and I were yelling, and I was out of control, and she thought Duke beat me.” Sean shook his head. “He probably wanted to, but he never laid a hand on me.”

  “You and Duke had a much different relationship than you and Jesse. You’re different people. And you’re not the same person you were as a teenager. Why didn’t you tell Jesse you know?”

  “Because I don’t know what happened! I only know it’s not what he said. I need more.”

  “You could ask. Tell him what you think, ask him to fill in the holes.”

  “I don’t know if I can handle him lying to me again. I just want to find out what happened, then I can talk to him.”

  “Whatever it is, consider that he might have a good reason.”

  “I have. But that still doesn’t justify him lying.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. Have you eaten?”

  “I wasn’t hungry. Jesse went to his room when we got home. I brought him a sandwich. Tried to get him to talk. He wouldn’t. Said he had homework and I left.”

  “I’ll make you something.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her with concern. “Really?”

  “Stop it.”

  “There’s leftover Rib House on the bottom shelf.”

  “I can use a microwave just fine.” She walked around the island to the refrigerator and pulled out the leftovers, then the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Sean said and checked the security pad on the kitchen desk. “It’s Leo Proctor. Were you expecting him?”

  “No. I asked for a favor, but I assumed he would call.”

  Sean walked to the front door and let Leo in. “Sorry for coming by so late,” he said. “I’ve been working on this counter-terrorism case all week—twelve-hour days—and this is the first time I could break free.”

  “Anything to be concerned about?”

  “Some scumbag stole RPGs from Lackland last week. I’ve been working with the MPs and SAPD to track them down. We recovered every piece and arrested every person involved, but today it’s been a mountain of paperwork.”

  “Beer?”

  “Love one.”

  Sean liked Leo, the FBI’s SWAT team leader and member of the counter-terrorism squad. He and Lucy had worked together on a couple of cases, and Lucy trained under him in hostage rescue.

  Leo sat at the island while Sean retrieved two beers. “Can I dish you up leftovers?” Lucy asked.

  “No, thanks. I ate at the office—we brought in hoagies, and I’m still full. But you’re on my way home, so I thought I’d tell you what I heard about Walker. Better in person.”

  “It could have waited until tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow. Taking the day off after this long week. Going fishing up past Spring Branch with a couple buddies. Camping a couple of nights along the river. Drink beer, not think about work.”

  “Sounds good,” Sean said.

  “Somehow I don’t think you’d have the patience to sit still and fish.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Your brother, on the other hand, he’d be good.”

  Sean laughed. “True.”

  Lucy put a plate in front of Sean, and had a smaller plate for herself. She sipped her wine and said, “Did you learn anything?”

  “Yep.” Leo sipped his beer. “Barton boys. Kidnapping, murder.”

  “Kids?” Sean asked.

  Leo nodded. “I wasn’t involved with the case. It was handled by a task force led by SSA Grant Stocum.”

  “I don’t know him,” Lucy said.

  “He’s not here anymore—transferred a few years back to God knows where. Might have even left the bureau. Good riddance. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me. He was a ladder climber. I wouldn’t say he was a bad agent or a good agent—his clearance rate was solid, but that’s because he cherry-picked his cases. And with the Barton case, he put the blame on his team—not on himself. One of the task force members was Emilio. Everyone likes Emilio, who never says shit about anyone, so when Emilio didn’t have a kind word, I knew I was justified in not liking the prick.”

  “Emilio must have been a rookie back then.”

  “Yep. About six months in at the time. Basically—the Barton brothers, six and eight, were kidnapped by their aunt on their way to school. Walker got the initial call. Because it was sensitive and timely where every minute counted, the FBI was brought in fast—I doubt Walker made that call, but from folks in the know, he was fine with it until Stocum took over and iced Walker out. There were a lot of accusations tossed around. Walker believed that this was a volatile situation, they had to act quickly, while the FBI called in a profiler who took the information that this was a family dispute and decided that the aunt wasn’t a danger to the boys, that they should negotiate for their safe return, find out what the aunt wanted, the whole nine yards. That time would help de-escalate.”

  “Aunt?” Lucy asked. “Not a noncustodial parent?”

  “Yeah. The older sister of the mother. Stocum ignored Walker, then kicked him from the investigation when he went off the reservation. Can’t have two people calling the shots. Stocum followed protocol, but the profile was wrong or misinterpreted, and the boys died—murder-suicide. Walker was suspended when he decked Stocum. I heard through the grapevine that he developed a drinking problem—I just didn’t know why. Now I do. He’s cleaned himself up and is one of the best investigators in the sheriff’s office, but yeah, he does not like us much.”

  “It makes so much more sense now,” Lucy said. “He has complete disdain for the Behavioral Science Unit and criminal profiling. But we need it on this case.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Three victims, no connection. If the MO and ballistics didn’t match, I wouldn’t think that the same person killed them. But it’s looking more and more like we’re dealing with an actual serial killer, and if so, we need to put together a bigger task force, more resources, and develop a deep profile.”

  “No motive?” Leo asked.

  “Not collectively. I suppose there are individual motives, especially for the first and third victims, but nothing really solid. Plus, we learned that the first wife lied to us.” Lucy realized Marissa Garcia had also lied—a lie of omission—by not telling them about Julio’s confrontation with Chris Smith. But Lucy really didn’t blame her.

  “Sounds juicy,” Leo said. “And guilty.”

  “She was cheating on her husband, and not with one guy. Plus, we believe she manipulated her husband into ramming a friend’s truck in high school, which inadvertently paralyzed his friend. So maybe she’s into something else we haven’t found—Walker is all over it. He really didn’t like how she attempted to manipulate us. And there’s an insurance policy on her husband.”

  “Money,” Leo snorted. “Number one cause of divorce and murder.”

  “And I suspect if we didn’t have two more victims, Leo would have pushed harder on Little Ms. Sweetness and found out about the boyfriends on the side. But that still doesn’t tie her to Standish’s murder. Then, four weeks later, another guy gets killed, also on a Friday night, late, this one coming home from a business trip. There’s less motive to kill him—pillar of the community, teenage daughter, lives here—in Olmos Park. Frugal, well-liked accountant. The only real motive would be th
at his daughter is independently wealthy. Super wealthy.”

  “The teenager?” Sean asked.

  “She’s fourteen, her mother was from an old-money family in California. When her mother died, Abigail was awarded a substantial trust. But no one can access the money until she’s twenty-one. We’ve found no dirt on James at all. Then the third victim.” She sighed, rubbed her eyes. She’d lost her appetite and rinsed off her plate.

  “Something different with Garcia?” Sean asked.

  “His wife is eight months’ pregnant. He is a hardworking family man. But we learned that his best friend may have raped his wife a few months before their wedding. I haven’t interviewed the wife yet, the information is secondhand. But it’s clear from what we know that the boy Garcia raised is the child from the rape. There was a fight between the men a few weeks ago, and while we don’t know whether the rapist found out the truth about the child’s paternity, if he did that is motive.”

  “For Garcia to kill him,” Sean said through clenched teeth.

  “Or for the rapist to kill Garcia if he thought his former friend lied to him all these years. You know as well as I do that after seven years it’s going to be difficult if not impossible to prove a rape. We interviewed the guy, and I want him to be guilty, but his alibi for the first murder is solid. Jerry already confirmed. Impossible for him to have been in San Antonio. The third murder—his former friend—is a looser alibi, but it’s still pretty good. He’s staying at his mother’s house while he’s in town.”

  “Are you investigating the suspected rape?” Sean asked.

  “I called Tia Mancini when I was driving home. She’s very interested and is going to do some preliminary work.”

  “She’s good,” Sean concurred. He rinsed his plate and stood behind Lucy, rubbing her back. She was tense. This was a tough case, but with this added assault, he knew she was twisted up inside.

  “So three victims,” Leo said, “no connection, each where there is a motive—weak, maybe, but present.”

  “But it’s three different motives. Adultery, daughter’s trust fund—unless James has a secret life we haven’t found out about yet—and a seven-year-old rape. But the victims were the victims—I mean,” Lucy corrected, realizing that she was overtired and not speaking clearly, “the victims were the ones who had a motive. Standish, one of his wife’s lovers; Garcia, the man who raped his wife. If Abby James was the one who died, the trust reverts to the larger family trust and most of the money goes to charity. At least, that’s what I got from the paperwork. It’s extensive.”

  “I can take a look at it,” Sean said.

  “Maybe that would help—because it’s written in complex lawyer-ese.”

  “I see why you want to consult BSU,” Leo said. “There’s no one motive—unless the guy is a nutjob.”

  “Most serial killers are not legally insane,” Lucy said. “He has a reason—it might not make sense to us, but he has a very specific reason for killing these people. They may be a surrogate for someone else, or they may have slighted him in some minor way that he exaggerated in his head. We have no similar murders in other jurisdictions. The murders feel like a setup—everything just how the killer wants it, a show. For us. I can’t shake that feeling. But ultimately, it’s the shot to the face that tells me the killer truly has ice in his veins. He—or she—looked the victim in the eyes and fired. Each victim—except Garcia, who was already dead when he was shot. It takes either rage or cold to shoot a person in the face. To look them in the eye as you pull the trigger.”

  She should know. She’d done it. Her rapist—the man who had kidnapped her and had others rape her in front of a video camera—she’d killed him in cold blood. She did not regret it. Cold had seeped into her bones. Filled her with icy rage. People say that anger is hot, but for her it was the cold that enabled her to kill an unarmed man.

  But she hadn’t shot him in the face. She’d emptied the revolver, all six bullets, into his chest. Why? She hated him. His arrogance. His borderline insanity. She should have shot him in the face.

  “Luce,” Sean whispered in her ear.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and cleared her throat. “When I first caught this case, I thought revenge. It felt like revenge. But revenge for what? None of these men have done anything to warrant killing—unless we haven’t found it. And the killer is becoming bolder. Killing faster. Four weeks, three weeks … do we have two weeks now? One? Tomorrow’s Friday and I feel like we’re no closer to finding a suspect than we were two months ago. That’s why I want to consult with BSU, but Walker has put his foot down.”

  “You’re a criminal psychologist,” Leo said. “You understand profiling.”

  “I studied, but I’m not a criminal psychologist. I don’t do this full-time. My brother Dillon has years of experience. BSU employs a dozen people, all of whom have more experience than me. Fresh eyes can open up an investigation.”

  “You could consult alone, go around Walker.”

  “I didn’t want to go that route, but I may have to.”

  She really didn’t want to go over Walker’s head—not when they had been getting along fairly well. But they were stymied, and she couldn’t figure out a way to get inside this killer’s head. Couldn’t figure out why.

  Leo finished his beer and stood up. “I’m going to head home. Thanks for the beer, I’ll see you on Monday—can’t wait to relax and not think of idiots who steal military weapons or serial killers who shoot people in the face.”

  Sean walked him out and Lucy cleaned up the kitchen. There wasn’t much to do, and she was done by the time Sean returned.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “Talk.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “This is hard for you.”

  “I’m just frustrated.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She knew what he meant; she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m okay. Seriously—we’ll deal with any fallout later, but it’s not going to impact this investigation.” She kissed him. “I have my case, you need to focus on Jesse.”

  “He’s asleep—I just checked on him. So it’s you, me, and—well, not Bandit, because my traitor dog is on Jesse’s bed. He knows it’s the only piece of furniture I won’t kick him off.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Jesse’s situation. Maybe Brian knows what’s going on.”

  “You’ve been thinking? Between analyzing your case with Leo and dinner?”

  “Ha. Seriously, the coach said Jesse went off with Brian, right? Maybe Brian is the one in trouble, or the one who knows what’s going on with Jesse.”

  “Brian doesn’t get in trouble. He’s always been a responsible, quiet kid. Michael is still … well, edgy. I worry about him.”

  “And you always will. After what he went through, what he had to do to survive, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t worry.”

  “You think it’s Brian?”

  “It’s the logical place to start. But not tonight. It’s nearly eleven, and we need to call it a night. We’re both exhausted.”

  “I’m not that exhausted.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I mean, I’d like to go to bed … but I might not be able to go right to sleep.”

  He smiled and played with her hair.

  “Let’s see about that,” Lucy teased and led Sean up the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Friday Morning

  Lucy woke up at dawn and went to work early. She read every press report as well as the FBI file on the Barton kidnapping and murders. It had been an awful tragedy, but she couldn’t tell from the reports whether the agent in charge of the investigation had done anything wrong. Profiling was usually accurate—but it wasn’t 100 percent. And much of profiling was dependent on accurate information about the crime, the victims, and the perpetrator. And in the Barton case, they didn’t have time to develop anything more than a superficial analysis.

  She could understand why
Jerry had disdain for the FBI and profiling, but it was one case that had ended badly, and there was no way of knowing whether the outcome would have been different if they had handled it differently.

  Rachel came in at eight and, after putting her belongings in her office, walked over to Lucy’s cubicle. “I heard you were in at six this morning.”

  “I wanted to read some old files.”

  “Related to this investigation? The murders?”

  She hesitated, then decided she had to be forthcoming. “The case Walker worked on with the FBI ten years ago. I needed to understand why he has put up a stop sign into asking BSU for a profile.”

  “And did you learn anything?”

  “The case was a tragedy all the way around. I don’t know who was to blame, if anyone—I think the profile, which isn’t in our files, may have relied on misinformation or incomplete information. But the whole thing ended in less than twenty-four hours. Walker caught it, the FBI came in, the profile was rushed because it was the kidnapping of two minor children, and the boys were killed in a murder-suicide a day after they were grabbed by their aunt. In that time Walker was kicked off the task force because he and the lead agent butted heads.”

  “What does that have to do with now?”

  “I don’t want to go over his head.”

  “I hear a but.”

  “We need a psych profile, and we need it soon. The killer isn’t going to stop with three now that he has gotten away with it.” Or she. “I feel like the killer is giving us a message. Setting the stage. Take the Taser hit, for example. The first victim, based on a reenactment, fought back and may have gotten away or the upper hand when the killer Tasered him in the stomach to get him down, then shot him. And why use duct tape at all? That puts the killer very close to the victim. Then remove the duct tape?

  “We could argue that the killer didn’t want anyone to hear … except Jose Garcia was dead at the first blow, and still the killer went through the motions. The beating, the duct tape, the Taser, then shooting in the face. No need—except to make the crime scene look exactly like the first two crime scenes. If the killer left Garcia after the fatal blow, we would never have connected his murder with the first two.”